I am not dead
by karottensuppe
Summary: Just something I came up with last night. One of many ways I imagine Sherlock telling John of his well being.


It has been 3 month. For 3 month John had come home to a deserted 221b. He tried to keep it together. After all, someone hat to stay strong and be there for Mrs. Hudson. That poor woman. She had cried for days upon hearing the news. John had to admit that he didn't handle the news any better. He didn't want to believe it. This was Sherlock he was talking about. The man was known for all sorts of unconventional things. He just didn't understand it. He knew that Sherlock wasn't a fake. John himself had the honor of observing the man work. It was truly amazing and no one could make him believe that it was all just a lie. _No one_, not even Sherlock could make him doubt that for even just a second.  
When he visited his deceased friend's grave, it started to sink in. _He was dead_. Never would John come home to hear the beautiful sound of Sherlock playing the violin. He would never walk into to the kitchen and find a head in the fridge. He would never go on an adventurous criminal chase again. John's thoughts were running through his head to fast to keep track of them. He didn't even know he would miss these things. It had always annoyed him somewhat. Some of Sherlock's experiments had bugged him so much. Now that all that is gone he felt like he would never be able to laugh again. In Sherlock' s absence he had realized that all the little habits and character traits that John thought were obnoxious actually were the things he loved about his friend. They made him the man he loved so much. These thoughts kept his mind spinning as he stood in front of the grave. It just seemed so wrong to be standing there, as if it was all just a very bad dream. The worst nightmare – and he had his fair share of bad dreams. After the war, Sherlock was the man that had put him back together. His work had healed John's wounds more than all of the hours he had spent in therapy. He will forever be grateful for that. Sherlock had given him his life back, if only for a short period of time. Now that he was gone, John didn't know how he could go on.  
It took all he had in himself to speak some thoughts out loud. With tear-filled eyes he began: "_You told me once that you weren't a hero… um... there were times I didn't even think you were human, but, let me tell you this: you were the best man and human… human being I've ever known, and no-one will ever convince me that you told me a lie, that's… uh. There." _  
He wanted Sherlock to know how he felt, to know that he would never stop believing in him, even now. "_I was so alone, and I owe you so much."  
_With the last spark of hope he could find in himself he let go of some of his anger. "_Look, please, there's just one more thing, one more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't. Be. Dead. Would you do that, just for me, just… stop it. Stop this!"_

After that he couldn't bring himself to visit the grave again. He often planned to do it but could get up of the chair, shaking with sobs. It was the hardest thing he ever had to go through. He took so much of him just to make it through the day. Most of the time he was just sitting in his chair, starring at the smiley face on the wall. Sometimes he threw dishes against the wall out of frustration and anger.  
It was Mrs. Hudson who made him go to the cemetery once again. She saw through his façade and tried to help him. She made him go back and swore him she won't let him leave until he had spoken some of his frustration out loud. John didn't know how he found the power to pull himself up but after a while he was standing in front of the grave again. He even brought flowers. He had thought about what he wanted to say but when he stood in front of that beautiful black stone again all the words were gone.  
He started to cry and yell ant the ground: "_How can you do this to me Sherlock. How do you think you are? There are people out there who need you. I need you. Do you understand? I. NEED. YOU. I _…" After that his voice broke up and the crying took over. He fell to his knees and just sat there, crying. He felt his phone vibrate in his pocket but he didn't care. It could have been nothing important. Who would text him? He kept on crying and the phone vibrated again and again. After the seventh time he got it out to turn it off and that's when he saw the massage.

I'm not dead.  
SH


End file.
